


Visceral

by LittleLinor



Category: Spiral: Suiri no Kizuna
Genre: Gen, M/M, Violence fetishization, sexualised violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cannot touch him, cannot protect him, cannot be his shield because his blood is boiling, calling for its own, and he must kill, eliminate, slaughter whatever, whoever could touch him instead.</p><p>Kanone, on dreams, reality, the rawness of desire and much, much too much blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visceral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azalee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azalee/gifts).



The blood runs down his hand, and for once, just for once, he pauses and lets it.  
There are still other rooms, other men to eliminate. They will be here soon. But right now the only thing he can focus on is the warmth of the blood sliding to his fingers, the man's sprained, spread irises and contracted pupils, and the choked gurgle that tries to come out of his impaled throat.  
He sees eyes, other eyes, dimming blue with pain, and his own blood turns to still-burning ash.  
The light in the dull, brown ones dies out, and he slowly pulls out the knife, unlodges his knee from the man's stomach and lets him slide to the ground.  
He is the gun with wings, but right now his body is crying for blood and release, for the kind of carnage only a knife can bring. The guns will have their moment, later. As will the grenades at his waist.

The doors behind him open, and he twists and throws the blade he was holding, right into the first guard's eye. He catches sight of them. Four--three, submachine guns, vests but no real head protection, not strong enough. The first bullet goes into a crotch. The second into a head. Three steps and he shoots the third one down too, keeps flying to the one that still breathes, still screams. He is faster than this, doesn't allow people time to cry. This one he watches for a few seconds, curling up in pain and fear, voice torn into high-pitched keens (he sees a body spread, instead, offered, _powerful_ and vulnerable).  
Shoots three bullets into its skull.  
He doesn't usually notice the smell. It's thick, sweet, rings metallic in his nose. By now noise is everywhere. Alarms, shouts. The squeak of his soaked sneaker sole. He's not sure why he stepped into it. It's not something his body would do.  
The next room has too many guards in it. He crosses it rolling, leaves a grenade in his wake, and slams the door.

His heart is beating. His breath hot, as it would never be from effort. The beat starts in his stomach, rings in his ears. Spikes at his shoulders, jabs of near-pain that makes his joints feel oiled and loose, perfectly spinning gears in this weapon of mass destruction. It spreads even to his hips, as if it could make him even faster (it can't, not him, not when his body is already faster than his brain).  
They are starting to pour in a blur of movements. How many? He isn't quite sure, his hands take them down before his eyes can see them. One sneaks up behind him; the spinning hit he delivers jams his jaw into his skull. He should see, should count, no one can escape after all. He should have kept count. Instead he pulls out his guns again and plows them down. Fast, efficient. The detonations ring, regular, musical, almost like fingers hitting keys instead of flesh. Not quite as violent as what those fingers can muster, the pure, molded emotion they can punch in his gut. They hit, shred, tear, thresh, rip, sink, still in rhythm--he plays it--like the mad beat of a heart or the maddening dance of too-fast notes against his ears. A music only he can dance to. It drives him, guide his steps and fingers and heart; his body moves like a feather in the wind, light and swift and untouchable.  
(Wind like his breath, so precious and _fragile_ and he wants it for himself, wants to own it, its sound, its taste, its frantic caged heave)

They fall like ripe wheat at the harvest, spilling their scarlet grain on the floor he flies on. He has wings that none can clip, not even himself, not completely, and they carry him through room after room, corridor after corridor, until he stands above their head, foot pressed against his stomach, watching the red cough paint his face with wet splatters. His black, immaculate suit should be opened, sliced, but he knows there is nothing beautiful hiding behind it, nothing but the perversion present in every human, even those who aren't.  
He could stay and play, but he's spent too long here, much too long. He needs to finish before others worry about him, before they try to help, before they wonder why he's launched this attack, unplanned, unhelped.  
He pushes the man's chin up with the barrel and pulls.

(He remember his voice and his blood and those eyes, eyes that shine at him and dull at him as his whimpers die down, the soft edges of skin and sharp, wet angles of bones, the hot spill against his fingers, sticky, slippery, flowing in gentle waves and spilling down, in rivulets of red against cream.  
He remembers the sluggish, heavy fire in his veins when he combs that hair back, the taste of lips in his mouth, their satiny slide against his teeth, and his hands, searching amongst wet heat for their one link, their one common point, the one that won't die out like his eyes because it was never there, hasn't been since they were born.  
He remembers lying in a pool of cooling, crusting blood and waking up in a pool of cold sweat, and tells himself that the trembling is fear.)  
He cannot touch him, cannot protect him, cannot be his shield because his blood is boiling, calling for its own, and he must kill, eliminate, slaughter whatever, whoever could touch him instead.


End file.
